by Jo Knowles
At the part in the song where the fast music kicks in, Sam follows Emma’s advice and keeps moving the same slow speed as if he’s in a love-dance trance. Molly lifts her head once to look at him, smiles, and puts her head back on his shoulder. Everyone else tries to move faster, not knowing how to handle the unexpected change in tempo, but Sam looks as cool as a cucumber.
Emma is always right.
I listen to the words again and think about how Emma sang them as she waltzed out of my room, as if they were all about her. And I get that sinking, worried feeling I always get when I think about Emma, and what can and can’t change.
Ryan crosses his arms at his chest and scowls at Sam and Molly.
“Jealous,” I say.
“Of what?”
But before I can answer, someone screams.
Lily jumps onto one of the couches and points to a corner of the room.
Everyone looks, and then there are more screams.
Ryan and I get up and try to see what’s going on. Someone turns off the music just as Lynyrd Skynyrd starts howling about being the bird you can’t change.
“Killer!” Zach says, and jumps up and down.
I crane my neck over Ryan’s shoulder and finally see what everyone else does: Curly, standing proudly, with a mouse wriggling in her mouth.
She shakes her head violently and the mouse dangles and swirls, trying to break free. It makes a sad and desperate squeak.
The Tank runs over and tries to catch Curly, but she darts out of the way, the mouse still in her mouth. People scream one by one as she gets close to them, and soon almost everyone is standing on couches, clutching one another.
“Don’t panic!” the Tank yells, panicking. “Everyone just stay calm!”
Curly trots onto the dance floor and looks at all of us. She holds her head up high and flicks her tail proudly.
A few people say “Ew.” And “Gross.” And “Save the mouse, Mr. Sticht!”
Curly looks confused, as if she doesn’t understand why no one is saying, “Good girl!”
She drops the mouse at her feet and licks her paw. She’s wearing a pink sequined camouflage vest that sparkles in the disco-ball light.
At first, it seems like the mouse is dead. But then it moves a tiny bit. Just a little twitch.
Curly stops licking and watches.
The mouse brings one paw forward and tries to drag itself forward very slowly, as if it doesn’t think Curly will notice.
But then it squeaks pitifully, as if to say, “Help.”
“Do something!” Lily yells. “It’s suffering!”
The Tank creeps toward Curly as if he’s on one of his secret missions in Iraq. Everyone gets very quiet. Curly looks up at him suspiciously, but then focuses on the mouse again. She reaches forward and pokes it with her paw.
The mouse drags itself forward another centimeter. It’s so sad, watching the mouse try to get away, even though it must know it doesn’t stand a chance.
I step off the couch and move slowly toward the mouse and Curly from the opposite direction of the Tank. Ryan moves in, too, from the other side. Once we’re surrounding her, we carefully move closer. The mouse squeaks another SOS.
Curly’s eyes dart back and forth from each of us, daring us to come closer. I take another step and she picks up the mouse in her mouth again.
There are several gasps and more ews.
“Squeak.”
Slowly, I take another step forward. “Good girl,” I say quietly.
Curly looks up at me and makes a funny noise. Like a half purr, half mew. The mouse hangs limply.
“Good Curly,” I say again, stepping closer.
Suddenly, the Tank swoops in from behind her as she’s concentrating on me and wraps his enormous hands around her. He shakes her, and the mouse falls to the floor. Curly wriggles to get free.
“Get the mouse!” the Tank yells at me and Ryan.
I run to the food table and grab a plastic cup and a paper plate, the tools Emma uses to save ants, spiders, and anything else that gets inside the house that she wants to trap and let go outside. I dash back to the mouse and put the cup over it, safely protecting it from Curly.
The Tank puts her back down, and she prances over to me and meows at the cup.
I can feel everyone watching. I carefully slide the plate under the cup, having to shove it a few times when the edge touches the mouse. The mouse doesn’t move.
My stomach churns, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.
When I’m sure the body is on the plate, I scoop it up and hold it out to the Tank.
“C’mon,” he says quietly. “Let’s take it to my room and see what we can do.”
Ryan, Curly, and I are the only ones who follow him.
A few people clap as we leave, but it’s not to make us feel like heroes or anything, and I’m glad.
The music comes back on as we start down the hall. Curly makes these funny chirping noises as she trots behind us, like she thinks we’re taking the mouse to her food bowl.
“Never knew you were a killer,” Ryan tells her.
I stop and look down at the murderer and see that her sparkly pink camo vest has blood on it.
She chirps again and runs after the Tank, holding her head up high.
“Sorry, Killer, you’re not invited,” the Tank says, shutting the door to his classroom before Curly can saunter in.
She mews from the other side.
“Is it dead yet?” Ryan asks, pointing to the cup on the paper plate.
“Not sure,” the Tank says.
Even though he teaches social studies, the Tank loves nature. He has all kinds of cages and things in his classroom, including a fish tank. Sometimes he finds dead animals on the road and brings them to school fresh for Mrs. Phelps, who then dissects them in front of us. It’s always equally gross and fascinating.
“OK, little guy. Let’s have a look.” The Tank lifts the cup and inspects the mouse, which is very still on the paper plate.
“Hm,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
“He’s dead,” Ryan explains.
“Are you sure?”
We peer over the tiny body, waiting for it to move. He has these cute little black beads for eyes, and tiny paws that look almost like hands. He seems to be smiling, except that there is a little bit of blood coming out of his mouth. I don’t know why I think he’s a boy, but I do. We wait and wait for him to twitch, but he doesn’t.
“Sorry, guys. We did our best,” the Tank says.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at Curly the same way again,” Ryan says.
The Tank scratches his chin. “It’s her nature. She’s a cat. She was just doing her job.” He looks around the room as if to make sure no one will overhear what he’s about to tell us. “Can I trust you guys not to share something?”
We nod.
“The thing is,” he says quietly, “Curly is a mass murderer. I find a mouse in here almost every morning. She leaves them by my desk. If it weren’t for Curly, we’d probably have a real infestation on our hands. But she keeps the situation under control.”
“Wow,” Ryan says, impressed.
“That’s just between us, remember. I’m not sure how the other students would feel if they knew.”
“Right,” Ryan says. “We won’t tell.”
“Noah?” the Tank says. “What’s wrong? You’ve been awfully quiet.”
I swallow, trying to get rid of the ache in my throat. It’s the kind you get when you’re trying not to cry. I don’t know why I have it now. It’s only a mouse. But for some reason, I feel sorry for him. I can’t get the image of him trying to crawl away to safety out of my head. I look down at his cute little face again. Stupid Curly. “Nothing,” I finally answer.
The Tank pats my shoulder. “Why don’t you two go back to the dance? I’ll take care of this little guy.”
“What are you going to do with him?” Ryan asks.
“Bag him a
nd bring him home to Stan.”
“Stan?”
“My snake. He loves the things, but they have to be somewhat fresh. Curly’s his main supplier.”
“Wow,” Ryan says.
The Tank walks over to his desk and opens a drawer. He pulls out a box of plastic sandwich bags and brings one over to the mouse. He folds the paper plate just so, slides the mouse into the bag, and zips it sealed.
“I’ll just run this out to my car,” he says. “See you boys back there in a jiffy.”
As soon as he opens the classroom door, Curly runs over to him and looks up expectantly.
“Good girl,” he says, and bends down to scratch her head.
“Wow,” Ryan says again when the Tank is gone.
Curly comes over to me and rubs against my leg. I bend down and take off her vest, and then put it in the trash can next to the Tank’s desk. “We shouldn’t let her wear camo,” I say. “It will only encourage her to hunt.”
“Why don’t you want her to kill mice?” Ryan asks. “She’s doing this old school a service.”
“I don’t know.”
I know it’s natural for Curly to do, but I just don’t like it. I don’t like how the whole thing made me feel.
Helpless.
Again.
And that’s all I want to say about that.
We go back to the dance and flop on the couch to people-watch.
Sam and Molly are holding hands. Zach is dancing with the pole again, but this time Lily is laughing at him in a flirty way. Pathetic.
When the next slow song comes on, Ryan leans back on the couch and stares at the ceiling like he can’t bear to watch all the couples close-dancing again. I do the same. Wads of gum are stuck up there in a patternless cluster. I never noticed them before. I wonder how they got there and how long they’ve been hanging above us, waiting to lose their stick and land on our heads. I wonder who put them there and why they bothered.
While I’m having these deep thoughts, someone taps my knee. Sadie is standing right in front of me, smiling.
“Wanna dance?” she asks.
“Me?”
She nods.
“Uh, OK.”
I get up without looking at Ryan, because I’m sure he’s staring at me with his mouth hanging open. Either that or shaking his head in disbelief.
Sadie takes my hand and leads me zigzagging through the other couples already dancing. When we stop, she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me close. I search around for Tate to see if he’s dancing with anyone. I thought he and Sadie were a couple, and I don’t want to get too close if they still are. But Tate is dancing with Haley, and she’s got him pulled close to her, too, so I guess it’s OK. As I try to remember what Emma taught Sam about listening to the words and not worrying too much about the rhythm, I realize the song is “Stairway to Heaven.” This means it’s the last song of the night and the dance is almost over. I survived. I wish I could say the same about Curly’s mouse.
I have my hands on Sadie’s waist, and they feel like they’re getting kind of clammy. I try to pull them away just a little so some air can get in. She rests her head on my shoulder. The top of her head touches my cheek. Her hair smells like bubble gum. She must have a lot of product in it, because it kind of sticks to my face. As we pivot in circles, I glance over at the couch to see what Ryan’s doing, but he’s gone.
Molly and Sam dance over toward us, awkwardly shuffling between couples. When they get close, Sam gives me a dorky thumbs-up. I pray no one else saw.
Where’s Ryan? I mouth.
He shrugs.
When the song gets faster, I take Emma’s advice and keep dancing nice and slow, but Sadie steps back a little and starts fast-dancing. I don’t know what to do! I decide to try to copy her. She twirls in a circle when the song says something about winding down the road, as if she’s acting out the words. I look around to see what everyone else is doing. Some people are slow-dancing and some are dancing wildly, like Sadie. I copy what she does, my face burning the whole time. I’m sure I look like an idiot. Sadie grabs my hands and starts swinging me around, laughing. She doesn’t seem to care how she looks. She’s just enjoying the words and the music. Pretty soon, I am too. When the song slows down again, we’re both out of breath. She leans into me, and this time I don’t feel awkward, even though I’m even more sweaty. She rests her head on my chest again, and I relax a little. Whoever said this is the longest song in history is right. But I’m actually kind of glad. I forget all about the mouse, and worrying about Emma, and where Ryan might be, and try to focus on this moment, because who knows if it will ever happen again?
Eventually the music stops and someone turns on the lights. The Tank barks orders to start cleaning up. I still don’t see Ryan anywhere, so I help clean and figure he’ll turn up eventually. When the Tank finally tells us the room is tidy enough, we all go outside to wait for our rides. Sam and I find Ryan sitting on the steps, looking crabby.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks.
“Nothing,” he says, all moody. “There’s your dad.”
“Be right there.” Sam runs off to find Molly and gives her a hug.
Ryan rolls his eyes and looks completely put out at having to wait a second longer. He is the worst when he’s in a mood. Emo, I think. Because really.
The drive home is totally awkward. Sam talks nonstop about Molly, and his dad keeps high-fiving him in the front seat. It’s so embarrassing. The whole time, Ryan stares out the window, brooding.
“So,” Sam’s dad asks, “did you boys dance with anyone?”
“Just once,” I say.
Ryan doesn’t answer.
“I think Sadie likes you,” Sam announces.
Ryan moves uncomfortably in his seat, as if he just discovered he’s sitting on something gross.
“Curly killed a mouse,” I say, to change the subject.
Sam’s dad makes a disgusted sound. “I still can’t believe the school allows that cat to live there.”
Now I wish I hadn’t said anything.
“Curly’s great,” Ryan says, still staring out the window. “She’s the best thing about that school.”
“Molly said Lily is allergic to her,” Sam says.
“Well, they’ll have to get rid of her, then,” Sam’s dad says matter-of-factly.
“No, Dad. Lily doesn’t want them to. She isn’t going to tell anyone, and you can’t either.”
“Hmm, Sammy. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Sam’s dad talks to Sam like he’s a five-year-old whenever they disagree about something. It’s so annoying. It’s like if he uses that tone, it will make Sam feel little and afraid to argue.
“How can she be allergic?” Ryan asks. “Curly doesn’t have any fur.”
“It’s not the fur,” Sam says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s the dander.”
“Dander?”
“Dandruff. Dead skin.”
“Gross. I didn’t know cats had that,” Ryan says.
“Everyone does,” Sam says, because he knows everything.
I picture Curly standing proudly with her mouse, wearing her little pink camo vest.
“They can’t get rid of her,” I say. “She’s, like, the school mascot.”
“You can’t say anything, Dad. Promise!”
“OK, OK. I didn’t realize you boys cared about her so much.”
“We do,” Sam says.
“Definitely,” Ryan tells the window.
“Yes,” I say. “She’s the best.”
At Sam’s, we spread our sleeping bags out on the floor of his living room. Normally we’d stay up late talking in the dark, but as soon as Sam turns the light out, Ryan rolls over and tells us he’s going to sleep.
I can’t see his face, but I’m sure Sam is disappointed.
“Are you and Molly a definite thing now?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he whispers happily. “Are you and Sadie?”
Ryan zips his sleeping bag u
p and down and makes all kinds of can’t-get-comfortable noises.
“No,” I say. “She didn’t even talk to me.”
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you, though. Molly thinks she does. I’ll tell her to ask Sadie.”
“No!” I say. I wish he could see me so I could signal not to talk about it in front of Ryan.
“She’s dating Tate,” Ryan says from under his sleeping bag.
“Then why did she dance with Noah?”
“Because Tate was dancing with Haley.”
“Why was Tate dancing with Haley?” Sam asks.
“Because Haley broke up with Big Tyler and she was sad, so Tate asked her to dance to make her feel better. But he doesn’t like-like her. Sadie only danced with Noah because she didn’t have anyone else.”
“Why didn’t Sadie ask to dance with Big Tyler?”
“Because the reason Haley broke up with him is that she found out he was also dating some girl from another school.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask. I was with him all night. No one ever told us any of this stuff.
“I’m observant,” Ryan says, as if that explains everything.
“It was a great night, wasn’t it?” Sam asks dreamily.
“Yeah,” Ryan says, “if you like that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?” Sam asks.
“Hanging around at school when you don’t have to be there, eating soggy chips and drinking flat soda, and listening to lame music.”
“My chips weren’t soggy,” Sam says.
Sometimes it takes a few extra beats for Sam to get the message.
“My soda wasn’t flat,” I say, just to annoy Ryan.
“Whatever,” he says. “It was still lame. About the only good thing that happened tonight was Curly and the mouse.” He rolls over. “I’m tired.”
“You’re a party pooper,” Sam says, disappointed. Even though he sounds like a little kid, I have to agree. Ryan is so moody — the emu.
I roll over, too, and try to get comfortable on the hard floor. As I try to sleep, I think about the mouse again, with its little paws grasping the floor, trying to crawl away. I think about how, right now, it’s probably midway down Stan’s neck, wrapped in snake saliva, slowly transforming into mouse juice.
